Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5)

by Robert Parker

  ‘Will do. I’ll set off now.’

  ‘No, we have time. Get a black coffee, four spoons of the instant stuff you have. Take a second, compose yourself. The closer we leave it to deadline, the more things are in our favour. They are sex-traffickers, not killers - they’ll be bricking it about maybe having to kill someone.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ben wasn’t.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s 5.20 now. Meet me at 6.00 where we discussed.’

  Ben hangs up, and immediately gets out of bed. He is still dressed in the black combats (once you get used to pockets everywhere, it seems stupid not to have them anymore) and the frayed red shirt (10 years old, one of the only ‘going out‘ shirts he has) he wore the night before. He grabs his pack, army issue, camouflage covered, and opens it. His mind is so fixed on the objective, that he forgets to worry for his friend and the safety of Freya. It would be wasted energy - right now, it’s fixing time.

  3

  A light mist hangs over the Manchester Ship Canal, as a couple of Greylag geese saunter around the bows of a moored barge. The scene would be idyllic, if it weren’t for the grim tide raging inside Ben’s mind. Nothing looks pretty when you feel like this. He looks up, to his left. Beetham Tower looks perilously close now, and stares down at him almost screaming ‘come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!’. 3298, Ben thinks, over and over again.

  He can hear footsteps from the bridge to his right, echoing through the stillness. Ben checks his watch - a reliable old school Casio - and thinks ‘Right on time’.

  Trev appears through the tunnel, walking briskly, with a backpack. He notices Ben, and marches straight to him, breaking into a slight jog as he approaches.

  ‘Save it, save it,’ Ben instructs, gesturing a slowing down motion with his hands.

  ‘It’s taken every part of me not to sprint all the way here’ Trev replies.

  ‘You alert?’ Ben asks. He scrutinizes him carefully.

  ‘Yes - wired to high hell.’

  Ben eyes him. ‘I’ll tell you all sorts of sorry’s about what’s happened as soon as we get out of there,’ he points over his shoulder to the hulking tower leaning over them. ‘But now is certainly not the time’.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Trev asks.

  ‘The laptop.’ Ben holds his hand out.

  Trev unshoulders the pack and a quick rummage brings out the notebook, he hands it over. Ben shuts his eyes on receipt.

  ‘The girls’ Ben states grimly. ‘Are they... young?’

  Trev sighs. ‘Yes, very.’

  In one motion, Ben drops the laptop across his now-rising knee and splits the machine into fractures of plastic, metal, circuitry and motherboard.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Two things. One: I’m making them address us. How are they going to bargain with us if we don’t have anything to bargain with? Two: I’m shutting down one sick kiddy sex ring. Step one is done.’

  ‘How do you do step two?’ Trev asks.

  Ben points midway up Beetham Tower. ‘By ripping the head off the serpent.’

  ‘You boys are out early!’ A voice cuts through the crystal air. It’s female with a playful air that doesn’t really fit the scene.

  Both Ben and Trev snap around to the source, and standing near the tunnel entrance are two women, all leather, straps, PVC and heavy make up. Textbook prostitutes, Ben thinks.

  ‘Not now, thank you.’ Calls Ben, preempting the come on.

  ‘Oh, look at you, wandering about at this time, you’re still dressed like you’re looking for some action’ the taller of the two shouts. In heels (massive ones) she is just over six feet, but six and a half with the beehive that sits merrily and messily up top. She takes a big stride over.

  ‘We do look a little overdressed for jogging’ suggests Trev.

  ‘One each, how convenient! We can do you a special!’ shouts the smaller one, who by normal standards, is not that small. Her eyelashes look like they could whip someone else’s eye out, never mind her own. They are approaching, in an awkward mix of attempted sexiness while trying to cover the ground quickly to get to them. It doesn’t look so bad on the smaller one, but the tall one looks like a horny giraffe at pub closing time.

  ‘Did you see them as you arrived?’ Ben murmurs softly to Trev.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You recognize them at all?’

  ‘Never seen them.’

  ‘OK.’ Ben steps forward, gaining a physical rebuff to their advancement. It always amazed Ben how animal human interaction can be, no matter the circumstances. It didn’t slow the oncoming women at all, but that gives Ben all the info he needs. There is another purpose to their being here, and it’s not to close the deal on one last trick for the night.

  As they get to the men, there is a slight slowing, as they fork and each pick a man to approach. The tall one goes for Ben, the smaller one angles for Trev. Ben steps quickly centrally to block them both off.

  ‘Ladies, I did say, now is not the time.’

  Ben feels the whistling knife before he even sees it. The tall one is bringing her right hand up from her side to Ben’s neck at slashing speed. Ben was expecting it, and takes an angled step forward to meet it, bobbing right to avoid the knife and blocking with his left arm. As he blocks the knife-arm, he dips low and lets rip a furious uppercut into the woman’s guts, damn near doubling her up over his fist.

  He almost has to shake her off his hand, as the little one dives and claws at his head and shoulders. It reminds Ben of when he was a kid growing up in Yorkshire, when the family cat would get a bit rowdy and have a bit of a pop at you. He grabs hair, and yanks. Part of the hair comes away, a horrible cheap weave, but the hair that is firmly attached, he holds on to. He pulls the woman off him and holds her at arms length - and plants a vicious headbutt right on the bridge of her nose. Her caterwauling cuts instantly and she hits the cobbles like a sack of manure. The other woman gasps for breath, and Ben can only spit words at her.

  ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up.’

  The breathing softens. It all took place in about 4 seconds. Trev stands there amazed, unmoving.

  ‘You... hit a woman.’

  ‘No, I hit two women. Trev - if someone’s trying to chiv your throat out take them down by any means. If you really have to, check for meat and two veg afterwards.’

  Trev has absolutely no comeback for that one. ‘Were they....?

  ‘Yes - they must have been following you. It’s when they saw that you weren’t alone they acted.’

  ‘Jesus’ Trev looks at the two women on the floor. ‘I haven’t seen anything like that before.’

  ‘I dare say it’ll get worse than that before we hit deadline. Now let’s go. Follow me. We are going through the hotel, but the flat number you gave me is up in residential.’

  The two men start to jog towards the tower, leaving the two prone women on the floor. A goose honks solemnly in the distance - a foghorn for the stormy times ahead, Trev thinks.

  4

  The lobby is a cavern of marble, glass and titanium, but at this time, there is also silence. A lone receptionist sits at the check-in desks on the left, with an even lonelier security guard by the revolving doors. There would have been activity more earlier, but at 6.40am? The drunks have long gone home, and the day is getting started - or at least it would be, but it’s a Sunday, and therefore even quieter than normal.

  Ben marches straight in, nodding an acknowledgement to the guard. Best way to gain acceptance somewhere is to act like you are supposed to be there, Ben thinks. He arrows to the desk, with the same sense of purpose that gives the guard no reason to worry or assume the worst, and approaches. Trev follows him closely, still carrying a very empty looking backpack.

  Ben knows, from his life prior to the armed forces, that there are few things in life worse than a night shift, and there are few things in life better than a quick buck. As he walks he t
akes a fifty pound note out of his pocket, and as he gets to the receptionist, he drops it on the counter. The receptionist is a rather quiet looking bloke who looks like it is taking every ounce of energy not to slump off his chair with exhaustion.

  ‘I need to get up to residential, fast and quiet’, he states, matter-of-factly. His tone stinks of ‘don’t ask’. The receptionist doesn’t. A moment of indecision passes, before he reaches for the note. ‘We’re in’, thinks Ben. ‘How the hell is he doing this?’ thinks Trev.

  The receptionist whisks the note into his blazer pocket and stands, and as he does so he simply utters ‘This way.’

  He points to the lift block to the right of the desks, and Ben and Trev head towards the recess. The receptionist points into the back wall of the area that houses the lifts, to the wood panels that line the doors. One of the panels has a key hole. Taking a keyring from his trouser pocket, that appears to have a good 20 keys on it, the receptionist selects a key and opens the door. As it swings open, motion activated lights blink on beyond to reveal a cold grey concrete stairwell. Ben and Trev enter, and the receptionist immediately closes the door behind them.

  Again, it has all happened so fast. Or it least, it had for Trev. Ben was actually a little disappointed they were in the lobby as long as they were, fearing anyone could have seen them. But still, he knows it hasn’t exactly gone badly.

  Trev looks up the stairway, and sees what looks like hundreds of floors stacked up above of them. Ben starts the walking the stairs steadily.

  ‘Walk, don’t run.’ instructs Ben. ’30 second breaks every five floors. Don’t want to risk burnout.’

  ‘Of course.’ Trev responds, and falls into place at Ben’s side like an obedient dog.

  They traverse the stairs at a steady pace. As they climb, Ben’s thoughts rattle to possibilities and planning, while counting the floors. ‘Assess number of hostiles...13... Locate hostiles... Find best exit... 14... Locate Freya... Get hands on firearm... 15... Keep Trev safe... Find the main man... 16...’

  His thoughts pop in at random, but they meld onto each other to form a cogent map in his head with a plan of detailed instructions alongside it. He always adhered to the notion that a good plan is better than any weapon you may be carrying... but he also firmly believes that it’s better to have a gun and not need it than need a gun and not have it. And at this present moment he is very short of firepower. He knows, that if they are packing up there, he has to get his hands on a firearm to even the odds.

  It’s different in England. A lot different to Afghanistan, and before that, Iraq. He knows that nobody is supposed to have a gun here, and the penalty for carrying illegally is severe. That has always been somewhat of an under-rated deterrent, but he doesn’t quite know what he is dealing with here. They may be armed to the teeth, but they may only be armed with bad intentions and nothing else. Who knows. If he prepares for the worst, however, anything better is a pleasant bonus.

  They edge ever closer to 32, and like a marathon pacesetter, Ben has to mentally drag Trev up the last few flights. As they get to 32, they stop. Ben takes a moment to let Trev catch his breath, while inching open the door to take a look. It’s a deserted hallway, with colorful carpets and smart looking mood-lighting. Ben creaks the door open a touch more, to see the number on the nearest front door. 3267. They are close. He closes the door.

  He hunches to Trev’s level, while Trev struggles to take his head from between his knees.

  ‘Trev, you wait here. Doesn’t matter what you hear. Stay here. When I step outside the next person who uses that door will be Freya. Take Freya and go down. Do not wait. As soon as you see her, you grab her and go. No excuses. You go.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can say about this is there?’ Trev wheezes.

  ‘Nothing at all’ Ben responds. ‘You won’t see me again till it’s over. I’ll find you on the outside sometime.’

  ‘Thank you’ Trev looks at him earnestly.

  Ben stares back. It’s the first time anyone has thanked him for any sacrifice he has made, for any effort he has put under the most extreme pressure. It catches him cold, and he can only nod back. Without a word, he turns back to the door.

  He cracks it open again, just a touch, and sees the hallway is still empty. He checks his watch - 7.07. Pretty good timing, thinks Ben. Close enough to jitter the enemy, but with plenty of time to assess and make a cooler approach. He opens the door fully and enters the hallway. As he slowly eases the door shut behind him, he catches Trev lowering himself onto the step. Ben was once like that - subservient to the situation around him. He turns to the hall and begins to move.

  He checks the door numbers and watches them tick upwards as he passes them. The place really is quiet, but it can only be expected. But they must know that someone is coming. They are not expecting him though - that’s why Trev is firmly hidden, way out of sight.

  The hallway ends at a T-junction, and as Ben approaches it, he gravitates to the left hand wall. He doesn’t know whether to go left or right, but as he edges his head around the corner to see, he knows he has to go left straight away - because the third door on the left has a tall man standing next to it. The welcoming committee, thinks Ben.

  Immediately Ben has him pegged from his posture - about 210 pounds, pretty well-built, but that 210 is spread across a 6’4” frame. And it’s spread pretty thin. He is about 40, with a completely skewed nose that suggests he’s not scared of a scrap or two. He hunches, and his back looks a little arched. He’s been standing there a while. He wears jeans, a white shirt and a blazer, he looks like an awkward uncle desperately trying to fit in at your 18th birthday party.

  Ben turns and faces just where he came from, cups his hands around his mouth and begins to whistle. He can’t think of particular song to whistle, so he starts with ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’. He slowly turns round to the corner, throwing the whistle from further down the corridor back to where he was stood, mimicking an approach. As he comes to face the corner, he lowers his hands and starts to walk briskly around the corner. He sticks his left hand in his pocket and feigns a good rummage.

  The guard looks up immediately, but Ben keeps his head down. As he walks, he keeps the whistle up. He pulls out his old house keys - he still carries them, a memento of his past and a reminder that he once had a place to call home in the twisted society he has returned to. As he gets the keys out, he thumbs through them, ever closer to the guard. The guard watches, and turns a touch to face Ben, folding his arms.

  Ben pretends to find the key he’s looking for and stops whistling. He takes the big bronze Yale house key in his right hand between thumb and forefinger, as if ready to open the door. He walks past the guard without even addressing him - and bursts into action with a sickening speed and ferocity.

  He launches at the guard, leaping and coiling, and buries both knees into the guards chest, exploding him backward into the door he was supposed to be protecting. With his right hand, he drives the key into the guards neck, and out again - it is an ugly blunt instrument for such a job, but the force of the hit drives the key into it’s target fairly easily. Not a nice way to go. The guard crashes into the door and the sudden impact forces it to open. The guard falls backwards into the apartment, choking messily as he thuds onto the bare floorboards of the hall. The man writhes on the floor but only for a brief moment, as the skirting boards take a grim spattering of crimson spray from his neck.

  Ben stands at the door and looks inside. Sunlight blazes and Manchester is presented in all it’s glory through high floor to ceiling windows opposite the door. Freya sits with masking tape across her mouth on the floor by the window, and looks up at the commotion from the door. She appears to only be wearing a nighty. Even though she can’t speak, her eyes tell all: how horrible what she just saw was, how relieved she is to see Ben and, on balance, given her desperate predicament, what an entrance that was.

  5

  The guard is barely on his back when Ben bends over him and opens
his jacket, checking the inside breast pockets and under-arms for a firearm. The prone guard cackles softly, but Ben barely registers the horrors of the guards last moments. He finds nothing - this may suggest that the man did not have a military background, but Ben can’t be sure. Ex-military opposition would ramp up the difficulty of this situation considerably, and Ben hopes that this is a good sign.

  He checks the guard’s waistband, front and back. Nothing. He yanks up the guard’s trouser-legs and checks. Still nothing. He knows he can’t keep looking - the noise will have alerted Freya’s kidnappers. Freya has been watching, and Ben looks up and catches her eye. His expression doesn’t change a bit as he brings his finger up across his pursed mouth, gesturing a firm ‘shhh’. She immediately looks down at the floor. Ben feels for her - in her nighty, on the floor, tear-speckled cheeks and the threat of oncoming demise. He has met Freya twice - she always seemed a nice girl. A safe bet for Trev - Trev’s easy humour had always been attractive to the girls when he and Ben were in their teens. He had done well for himself, but he got the feeling Freya felt that she had done well in return. They were, in short, a nice deserving pair.

  Hate swells in Ben, and he lets it roll out but not too far. He knows hate gives you an unbending steel when it comes to completing an unpleasant objective, but blind rage is exactly the opposite. He lowers himself to a crouch and peeks around the corner into the flat. First thing to strike Ben is that it’s not very big - the open living room and kitchen space is perhaps only 200 square feet. There is a bedroom door off opposite the entrance hallway, and the kitchen is sparse, white modern and, oddly, free of people.

  He breaks across to the kitchen, ducking as he goes, fully expecting the bedroom door to open at any time. It doesn’t - he get’s to the kitchen and dread begins to set in. Where is everybody? Are they all in the bedroom? What is happening? He reaches up to the kitchen draws to see what he can find. First one is just so chock-full of pans he can barely get it open. Second, is empty take-out boxes, about fifty of them. The third draw is a cutlery draw - bingo. He reaches his hand in - when the bedroom door blasts open. Ben’s hand closes on whatever he can grasp, feeling something metallic and pulls it out quickly. He crouches again, just as two men barrel into the room. He looks down at his hand - to see he is brandishing a soup spoon. Great, he thinks.